


Apsis

by vipereyed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking to Cope, First Time, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: Seeking refuge with the Order was a necessity. Some would call it a scheme. No amount of planning could ever prepare Draco Malfoy for whatever this thing was between him and Harry Potter.





	Apsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dicta_contrion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicta_contrion/gifts).

> Written for the trope "Down & Out Draco" for the 2019 H/D Tropes Exchange Fest
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful mods for having me participate in this fest, and everyone who helped me edit this monster! @dicta, I hope I did your prompt justice. It was a pleasure writing for you as I love your works, and I hope you enjoy this!

This is how the world ends: one moment Potter and the Dark Lord are circling one another in the middle of the castle grounds, enacting the dance of vultures, wand arms raised and at the ready. Both factions are waiting with bated breath, eager and anxious to see who will emerge the victor. Across the courtyard, Draco notices the lines of worry etched onto Granger's face, visible through the mess of bruises, dirt, and tear tracks old and new. Weasley is beside her, ashen and grim, along with the rest of the Order who wear identical expressions. Death Eaters stand behind their master in their black cloaks, ornate masks concealing their identities and expressions. The few that remain are either too delusional to accept Azkaban or death as very real possibilities, or true loyalists willing to die for their cause. Draco wonders which mask his father dons, and feels something in his stomach twist. 

Potter says something that Draco can't hear, emerald eyes grim with earnest determination. He somehow stands straight even with the weight of their entire society on his shoulders. _ That's our hero, _ Draco thinks, and can't help the bitterness that even now accompanies such a thought. Cold, high-pitched laughter—not unlike the sound of a thousand glasses shattering—rings out through the courtyard, and Draco can do nothing but watch, praying silently for Potter's victory as that skeletal hand raises its wand— 

"_ EXPELLIARMUS!" _

"_ AVADA KEDAVRA!" _

Spellfire erupts from both wands and dual streams of jade and scarlet flames leave the air heavy with the smell of burning. The ferocity of it makes his eyes water but Draco doesn't dare close them lest he miss something. There's a deafening _ CRACK _ and Potter stumbles back, still clutching his wand— _ Draco's wand _—for dear life. 

And that's when Draco sees it: less than five feet away lies his father's Lord in a crumpled heap of black robes. Death, once again, has come to claim Lord Voldemort. 

For a moment, all is silent with shock, before the success and its enormity occur to everyone. Whoops of joy and screams of cheer overtake the air as they celebrate their victory, the first few rays of dawn now breaking upon them. Members of the Order and Dumbledore's Army as well as students and professors alike run to embrace Potter, kiss him, anything to make their gratitude known. Potter, of course, is handling the whole 'just saved the world' thing with the same amount of grace and finesse he handles everything: a whopping quantity of 'not much, if any'. 

From his spot in the shadows, among the rubble and the dead (some recognisable and some not), Draco does nothing but observe. The cacophony of cheer isn't meant for him, and despite his change in allegiance, the Order has no love for any Malfoy. 

"Draco!" He's nearly knocked off his feet by his mother's bone-crushing hug. The smell of her perfume, powdery and light, envelopes him. His mother's nails, talon-like in their grip, digging into his arms as she sobs her relief. Father joins them in their embrace not long after, pressing a kiss to Draco's head like when he was a child. His father's face is damp with tears; Draco doesn't know what unnerves him more, the act of affection or the display of emotion. 

Through it all, Draco keeps his eyes trained on Potter, who is now wrapped in a crushing embrace with his friends. Even Loony and Longbottom are there, and somewhere, someone has begun to ring the bells signifying their victory. 

Potter doesn't look back once.

*

_ "I'm not a hero," Potter insisted one morning over breakfast when it was just the two of them. Granger and the Weasel had gone off somewhere, off on a mission, no doubt, but Potter was sworn to secrecy. Despite his change of faith, the Order still made their distrust very evident, not that Draco minded. His only real desire these days was a return to normality—whatever that was. He merely raised an eyebrow at Potter's outburst and set down his half-eaten toast. _

_ "Right." _

_ "I'm not. I never wanted to be, anyway. Being championed as, like, this great saviour, with no possibility of failure without destroying everything—I don't think anyone would want that. You've got to be mad if you do." Potter raked a hand through his hair, leaving it more chaotic than it previously was. _

_ Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, Potter, so you don't want to be the hero. Then why put yourself in situations where you're expected to be?" _

_ "Because it's the right thing to do," Was the stubborn answer. How Gryffindoresque. "I can't just—I have to do what's right." _

_ "Do you?" _

_ "Yeah, I do. And I think—I think you're an arsehole, and a bigot, but I think you ultimately want to do the right thing, too, Malfoy." _

_ "I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you, Potter." Draco scoffed, and with an effortless snap of his fingers, called upon Kreacher to Vanish the remnants of his plate away. He was no longer hungry. _

*

The Wizengamot wastes no time in arraigning the remaining Death Eaters, and despite Father's best efforts in removing every dark artefact, he's sentenced ten years in Azkaban. Draco and his mother are lucky; since Mother never took the Mark and Draco was under the 'protection' of the Order, they haven't been declared threats and their own trials await them at the end of the summer. Mother told him that their barrister believes that they might get a reduced sentence, or even be declared not guilty, but Draco can't find it in himself to be joyful; he remembers his father's trial, the way passers-by on the street spat at them, how protestors arrived in the Wizengamot, brandishing posters and photographs of the deceased. People who were now dead, they'd said, because of individuals like the Malfoys. 

"My son." Father rises to greet him, shuffling out of the shadows and over to the bars, his shackles clanging with every movement. 

"Hello Father." It's only because of his upbringing that Draco does not flinch, and even then, he lacks the restraint to stop his eyes widening in horror. 

Azkaban has not been kind to Lucius Malfoy. His father — tall, imposing, _ regal _ Father, has been reduced to this; a trembling shell of a man. He smells, Draco realises as his father approaches, and his lip curls of its own accord. Father's hair is brittle and dull around his gaunt face, a few strands pulled back with the ribbon he's always favoured. It unnerves Draco, to see a man like his father destroyed. "I hope you've been faring well in here."

Grey eyes identical to his own appraise him, the pale arch of Lucius' brow rising as he does so. For a moment they are in Azkaban no longer, and Draco is witnessing his father sneer at common, Muggleborn filth on the streets of London. "Draco," Lucius says, in a tone that might be thought of as 'conversational' to anyone who didn't know him. Draco says nothing, only keeps his gaze level with that of his father's. "I see no point in entertaining this charade. I am aware of what you've done." 

Draco inclines his head, the only indication that he's heard his father's words. "What I've done?" he repeats with an arch of his eyebrow. Every conversation between him and his father has never been a true, parental conversation so much as a battle of wits, of Lucius explaining to him his failures and informing him how he would be expected to conduct himself once old enough to take over as a Lord of the Manor. Rule number one: never let them see your hand. 

Lucius regards him with something akin to grim approval. "Turncloak is what they call you now." His lips split into a slow, feral smile, revealing a row of once-perfect teeth that have since yellowed. For the briefest moment, Draco feels his composure falter. 

"Father—"

"You do not need to explain to me, Draco. I know you better than to think you would ever willingly associate yourself with such _ filth _. No, I think it's quite a brilliant plan." 

The irony that of all the things he's done _ this _is what grants him his fathers approval doesn't escape Draco. "What?"

"Yes, yes, brilliant indeed. You will need to explain it to Him, of course, but I'm sure once he understands your plan, his Lordship will be pleased. Tell me, Draco, you are keeping in contact with Nott, aren't you? The Goyles, too, have always been our allies." 

A scream echoes down the hall, and Draco represses the urge to shiver. Through the small, circular window in his father's cell he can make out the crashing of waves against rocks on the shore. The knowledge of where he is hits Draco at once, and memories of his mad aunt come to mind. Bellatrix, alone and rotting in a cell with nothing but fanatical hope to sustain her. Lucius seems to be succumbing to the same fate. "Father," he says, on the off chance that the sickly feeling in his gut is wrong. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you kept in contact with the Notts and Goyles?" Father repeats, a skeletal hand encircling the cold, chipped metal of the bars that separate them. "He was thought to be dead once before, as you're aware, and he never forgot my betrayal. That is a chance our family cannot afford to take again, Draco, not after the numerous failures we've presented him. He will not be so merciful this time." Draco says nothing, choosing only to watch his father pace around his cage. "I implore you to make yourself useful, now. You will have my counsel if needed. Your mother isn't…equipped for such things." 

Draco wills his face to remain impassive as he presses his lips together. He knows what his father is asking, of course, and the level of devotion to a cause that Draco once thought of proudly is nothing short of terrifying. _ Will he only realise his mistakes once Mother and I are in a cell beside him? _ "The Manor is under surveillance. They have Aurors monitoring our owls, too." 

Lucius' jaw clenches, annoyance flickering across his face. "And there are ways to get past that," he snaps, thin nostrils flaring. "Are you not a wizard? Perhaps they haven't written because you haven't taken the initiative. Power is not _ given _ , son, it is _ earned _ . Do you know what the Dark Lord would do to me— _ to us _—if he knew I spent my days here, rather than trying to fulfill his cause?" There's a far away, haunted look in his father's eyes that Draco doesn't recognise. "I can assure you that it is worse than any fate the Ministry could decide for our family. The Longbottoms were an act of mercy by comparison. So believe me when I tell you, Draco, that this is of the utmost importance."

Draco can feel the chill of the prison beginning to seep into his bones. He swallows around a sudden roughness in his throat and manages a small nod in hopes of placating his father. "I understand." The lie slides off his tongue with practiced ease, even though in reality he is anything but understanding. The Dark Lord is dead; he saw it himself. He wants nothing more than to yell at Lucius, to scream and curse and sob about how their lives are all already irrevocably _ fucked _ now that it's over, and there's no use in continuing to drag their name through the mud even further. 

His father, Draco realises, is really quite a desperate man. It's a humbling and terrifying realisation. 

"You are a Malfoy, Draco. The time to take honour in who we are will come again, remember that."

Those parting words taunt Draco long after the Aurors Apparate him back to the Manor, whispered echoes ringing out in the silence of his bedchamber. _ The time to take honour in who we are will come again _ . It's laughable, Draco thinks, as there's never been _ honour _ in being a Malfoy. Only pride and ego, perhaps where there should have never been. 

He doesn't return to see his father again.

*

_It rained the night Draco was brought to the Order safehouse. Lupin had cast an Incarcerous Spell on him, the ropes tight enough to dig into the flesh of his wrists. His former professor probably got a kick out of that. Draco knew he would, were their roles reversed. He'd written McGonagall a fortnight earlier, an unsigned letter, the contents of which consisted of an elegant, looping script that read 'I need to get out of this'. He didn't know how she'd managed to trace it back to him—it would likely be a question left unanswered until his death. _

_ Lupin kept him blindfolded for the duration of their trip and explained that it was for 'confidentiality' and 'doesn't necessarily come from a place of mistrust' in a voice that suggested it did, in fact, come from the inherent mistrust of anyone like Draco. Draco found that any complaints he originally had were null and void once Lupin removed it upon their arrival at the Order headquarters. _

_ He recognised the place; of course he did, it was Mother's childhood home. The irony of that was delicious. The home of Walburga Black, pureblood and one of the Sacred Twenty Eight, dedicated to keeping the very people she hated safe. A safehouse to fight against those who held a similar mindset to her. If his great-aunt was alive now, she would surely faint at the sight of both the desecration of Grimmauld Place and those who were currently inhabiting it. _

_ Lupin left him in the foyer in an attempt to calm the inevitable storm brewing. Draco's gaze fell on an umbrella stand made out of a troll's hollowed-out leg. He frowned at the ugliness of it before glancing about at the various portraits that lined the wall, to the Black family tapestry. There was his name directly under his mother's, the golden embroidery producing a pulsing glow. _

_ "Harry," the werewolf was saying, "remember the owl I sent to you, about a, er, special case of someone needing protection from the Order?" Draco stilled. Potter was here? Of fucking course he would be. The poster child for the Order, living in their headquarters. Draco wondered if Potter had been elected head of the Order in their infatuation. _

_ "Yeah, I do. Why? Did—did something happen to them?" Leave it to Potter to be concerned over the fate of someone he didn't even know. Draco rolled his eyes. _

_ "No, he's here, in the foyer. I just think that it's best to handle the news of his identity _ … _ delicately, as it may be a bit of a shock." _

_ "Don't tell me it's Snape." Weasley groaned through what sounded like a mouth full of food. "It's not Snape, is it?" he asked when no one laughed at the jape. _

_ "No," Lupin answered the same time Granger retorted, "Why would it be Snape, Ron? Honestly." _

_ "Who is it Remus?" Potter asked, the sound of his voice sending a wave of annoyance through Draco. _

_ Draco couldn't hear the werewolf's subsequent response, but the immediate "No way!" told him all that he needed to know. Footsteps sounded from the kitchen and he braced himself for the inevitable; he just hoped that Potter or Weasel wouldn't hex him on sight, as Lupin, bastard that he was, had taken his wand from him. His former professor wouldn't even allow Draco to cast an _ Impervious _ on himself, and the heavy rain had soaked through his clothes and left his hair a damp, lifeless mess. He was in a sorry state, and it secretly killed him that Potter and company would soon be seeing him like this. _

_ The footsteps grew closer and suddenly Potter was hovering in the doorway, his brilliant eyes comically wide behind the lenses of those unfortunate glasses. _

_ "Malfoy?" _

_ He sounded dazed, as though this was all occurring to him in a dream. Draco couldn't blame him; of all the people to be seeking safety with the Order, his name would likely never even have come up. He opened his mouth, a quick retort on his tongue, but found that no words came out. Lupin must have cast a Silencing Charm on him as well. Left with no other option, Draco sent his most menacing glare Potter's way. Predictably, Potter glared back before turning to Lupin, who had rushed over to join him. _

_ "What's _ he _ doing in my house?" _

_ Lupin's fine brows knit together, his mouth opening and closing as he appeared to deliberate the best way to explain the situation to Potter, as well as Granger and Weasley, who were lingering behind him. The map of terrible scars on Lupin's face deepened with every facial movement, and Draco felt nothing but revulsion looking at him. "It's—I'm afraid it's a delicate situation, Harry. Mr Malfoy is here under McGonagall's orders, as he no longer declares himself associated with the Death Eaters, and he's thought to have valuable information that can help the Order—" _

_ "Bollocks!" Weasley interrupted hotly, his blue eyes flashing. There was a splotch of sauce by the corner of his mouth, and were he able to, Draco would have made a snide remark about it. "He's a Death Eater, he's Marked! He-WhoMust-Not-Be-Named is practically shacking up with his family!" _

_ "I know, Ron," Lupin said wearily. He couldn't be older than Severus, but he looked older than his years. "Be that as it may, since the Ministry can't offer him protection, he's under the Order's protection for now. At least until McGonagall can make other arrangements, if there are any." _

_ Granger's eyes narrowed in obvious distrust as she glanced over him, though she never appeared to be thrilled in Draco's presence. The only time she'd even so much as smiled at him was when she'd punched him; she'd been having a bloody fun time, then. _

_ "So he's seeking asylum with us, essentially." She sent him one last glance before darting her eyes away, as if even looking at him disgusted her. _

_ Lupin nodded, clearly pleased that someone was understanding of the situation. His scarred hands adjusted his shabby clothes. "Yes Hermione, you can think of it like that." _

_ "I can't fucking believe he's in my house," Potter mumbled, running a hand through his bird's nest of hair and leaving it more messy than it was before. He sighed heavily, deflating against the doorframe. "Can't anything ever just be, I dunno, normal for once?" _

_ "Hate to break it to you, mate, but there's nothing normal about any of this." Weasley laughed dryly and shook his head slowly at the situation. "If it's not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it's Malfoy." _

_ Draco flipped him a finger at the comparison. Weasley flipped two back. _

_ Potter turned to pin him with an intense stare, something fierce burning in his eyes. "I don't know what you're up to, Malfoy, but I'm not going to believe one second of it. You're still the same spoiled, prejudiced coward you've always been, and you only switched sides because yours was no longer convenient for you. Don't expect me—or any of us—to fall for your act here." Granger and Weasley nodded along in silent agreement, while Lupin observed the four of them with obvious worry. _

_ Draco could do nothing but glare at Potter, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his teeth kept itching to chatter from the cold. They were all watching him like he was a rabid dog—funny, really, when Potter was so chummy with someone like Lupin. The Gryffindor's words, true as they were, struck something deep within him. He didn't care whether anyone believed his intentions, as the gods above knew they were not truly pure and were borne out of protection for him and him alone. The only one he was fighting for now was himself. _

_*_

The courtroom is cold, and while it should be a refreshing contrast to the sweltering summer heat outside, Draco just feels uncomfortable. He sits with downcast eyes, his hands folded in his lap, as his barrister lays out a convincing argument for him: "Mr Malfoy, then a sixteen year old with his family home under occupation by the Dark Lord, was acting under duress." Melinda Oddpick had won the case for his father all those years ago, during the First Wizarding War; Mother hired her once more, in the hopes of history repeating itself. 

_ Mother. _ His own mother can't even attend her son's trial, as the Aurors were strict about not granting her any privileges during her house arrest. Azkaban is cruel, but the threat of being stuck in the Manor, haunted by reminders of what he's seen, and watching his mother become a ghost in her own home is a fate much worse. He'd rather die than let that happen; surely it would end with Draco losing his mind. With a slight shudder, he banishes the thought from his mind. 

It isn't as sensational as Father's trial; there's a lesser amount of people gathering to accuse the Malfoys of being complacent in the casualties of war, but Draco can still make out a few. Susan Bones is there, and with her are floating portraits of her family members killed in the war. Their eyes meet for the briefest second and Draco recognises the pure, unadulterated hatred in them. He can't blame her, really. He didn't pull the metaphorical trigger on her family but he may as well have. 

"Witness for the defense, please step forward." Shacklebolt nods at someone behind Draco. A gasp quickly escapes him, though it's drowned out by the collective cheering that comes with seeing Harry Potter, Hero of the Wizarding World, in public. Up front, there's a succession of camera flashes as the press, no doubt pleased by this development in the trial, begin photographing Potter from every angle as they compete for his attention. Clearly startled by the reaction, Potter blinks and raises his hand in an awkward wave to his admirers. Draco catches his eye for a moment and Potter bobs his head in the smallest of nods before launching into his testimony. 

Draco keeps his eyes transfixed on Potter the whole time while he speaks, as though nervous that if he looks away for so much as an instant, Potter will disappear and this will all have been a dream. "Erm, I can't say that I agree with everything Mal—Draco Malfoy has done. A lot of it, especially when we were younger, came from his need to be like his father, who upheld blood purist values. I don't think he's completely innocent, and even though his beliefs are caused from ignorance, I know it's not an excuse for forgiveness. But the truth of it is that Malfoy sought protection with the Order and without the information he supplied us, I don't know if we would have won this war. I—I beat Voldemort," and here the crowd flinches, some gasping audibly. Potter shifts uncomfortably before continuing. "I beat Voldemort using Malfoy's wand and before that, Narcissa Malfoy saved my life. I know that all of this is a difficult subject—believe me, being half-Indian in the Muggle world and then experiencing blood discrimination in the wizarding world are both, er, equally harmful. But I still stand by what I said. I don't know if I would be here if not for the actions Malfoy took during the war." 

The Wizengamot erupts into hushed murmurs, clearly debating Potter's testimony. Draco doesn't hear what they say; he's too focused on Potter, whose eyes are darting around the courtroom, his discomfort obvious. The minutes tick by in excruciating slowness and what feels like hours later, Shacklebolt announces that Draco is free to go, although any other lawbreaking he commits will result in severe punishment. Draco nods dazedly and allows Oddpick to lead him by his arm out of the courtroom and away from any outcry, her thin lips twisted in a grim, barely there smile. "Apparently the secret for freedom is having Potter on your defence," she remarks wryly, shrinking her notes before tucking them into her briefcase. "Mayhaps your mother should have just hired him for your trial." 

Draco doesn't humour her with a response. The words are ashes in his mouth and he can feel bile rising in his throat; there's a part of him, a twisted, jealous voice in his head reminds Draco that not only has Potter bested him at nearly everything growing up, but now his newfound freedom is owed to him as well. It's typical Gryffindor behaviour, is what it is. Of course Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and Society's Misfits, must fulfill his moral obligation to help those who need it. Anger, heavy and hot, curls around his stomach. Draco refuses to be anyone's _ project _; further, he refuses to be indebted to anyone again. 

He catches a glimpse of Potter by the lift and hurries over to him, leaving Oddpick and her suitcase without so much as a 'goodbye' or 'thank you'. "Potter!" A pale hand clutches around the fabric of Potter's shoulder and he turns around, surprise evident on his face. Draco blinks at the intensity of those green eyes boring into him after so long. "Why did you—?"

"I just—" Potter says suddenly, his words coming out in a rush. "I didn't do it, erm. For you. I mean…I meant what I said up there, but—"

"Mr Potter!" 

At once greedy members of the press begin their descent upon the pair of them, and all too quickly there's the _ click _ of the camera shutter followed by a blinding flash. Draco blinks against the brightness of it, his hand curling around the wand in his pocket instinctively before he loosens his grip. Surely he's made enough of a fool of himself, what with the unflattering photo of him and Potter that will grace tomorrow's paper; the last thing he needs is for 'paranoid' to be added to the growing list of adjectives used to describe him. 

"Mr Potter!" the same voice repeats, and Draco notices it's the reporter who photographed them. The gods were kind to not send Skeeter on her way, but the familiar hunger is apparent in this young woman's eyes as she sizes up Potter, who shifts uncomfortably, hands going straight to his pockets. "I must ask you, Mr Potter, and I believe I speak for most of us when I ask—why did you do it?" 

"Erm—" Potter opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish. His eyes dart nervously over to Draco for the briefest of seconds and somewhere, Draco can feel the stirrings of something—sympathy? pity?—within him. 

"Mr Potter, what are your thoughts on the trial of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Is it true that you tried to kill Draco Malfoy in your sixth year?" 

"Were you aware that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater during your school days, Harry?" 

The questions keep buzzing around them, each one fired in rapid succession and seeming quicker than the next. Draco can't take it; a thin, unseemly sheen of sweat is beginning to perspire on his forehead, and it's getting harder to breathe with the press surrounding them. Potter is trying to be diplomatic, of course, muttering 'no comment' when applicable and when his words work. Draco supposes he should be grateful that Saint Potter isn't trying to feed the flames but all he feels is annoyance. Even with Potter's tight-lipped answers the quills are still frantically scribbling mid-air, and Draco is willing to bet that none of those 'quotes' are real, but embellished. Tomorrow he'll have the pleasure of reading an article detailing exactly how he's managed to Imperius Harry Potter or some other such nonsense. 

"Potter." Draco's hand clenches around rough wool, and he's surprised to note that he's still holding onto the other man's shoulder. "I'd best be going." 

Green eyes widen, and his lips work as though he has something to say, but then Potter nods. His lips are twisted in an apologetic grimace. "'Course. See you, Malfoy." 

Draco nods minutely, his lips forming a '_ thank you _ ' as he turns to leave. To his surprise, Potter's mouth twitches into a small smile and he mouths back a wordless ' _ I'll write you _' before the press once again starts to demand his attention. It's laughable, really, how despite Potter having dealt with fame since a child he's still quite shit at the charismatic aspect of his heroism. He's busy observing Potter fumble his way through answering yet another question when he feels someone tug at his sleeve. 

"Mr Malfoy, is it true that your family has bribed Harry Potter into testifying for you?" 

Draco glares down his nose at the reporter in the way that his father once would have done and tries not to hate himself for it. "No," he replies in the iciest voice he can manage before turning on his heel and heading into the nearest available lift. 

_ I'll write you, _ Potter said. Draco scoffs to himself, earning a few glares from other patrons in the lift. What is there to say? Logic and rationality tell him that the Gryffindor doesn't have it in him to gloat about essentially granting Draco his freedom, but the alternatives aren't any better, either. Potter, with his band of misfits; a Muggle-born, a blood traitor, Loony, Longbottom, a half-giant, and now a disgraced Death Eater. Resentment, familiar and hot, burns through Draco like tar. He doesn't _ need _ Potter, with his hero complex and misplaced sense of chivalry, or worse, his pity. 

_ Yes, you don't need such filth, _ his father's voice whispers to him. _ A Dragon bows to no one, Draco, and a Malfoy is never indebted. _

Shuddering, Draco draws his robes tighter around himself and pushes his way out of the lift, ignoring the glares and complaints he receives as he does so. Father's words are a comforting poison and adolescent hatred laps at him; Draco wonders if passersby on the street can see it, a blight on his subconscious. Perhaps he never truly turned coat at all, and this is simply who he is. Who he is meant to be. 

It isn't until much later, when he's alone in his chambers, that he notices an emptiness, an absence of warmth in his hand that was previously resting on Potter's shoulder.

*

_ There was nothing to do in Grimmauld Place most days, save for talking to old portraits that were thrilled at the opportunity to finally have a Black descendant to talk to, despite the very unorthodox circumstances; and after a lengthy conversation with Regulus Black, Draco was content to avoid the rest of the portraits as best he could. As he grew older he noticed the inherent tragedy of the portraits—remaining stuck in a certain time for eternity, not knowing they were dead, becoming an exaggerated caricature of their living self. It was a fate that Draco did not look forward to though he knew that like all Malfoys, his portrait would one day grace the halls of the Manor with those before him. _

_ He would be suspended in time, much like the home he was currently staying in. The Black's ancestral home remained decrepit and dated in more ways than one; a fine dust covered nearly everything in the house, and it mostly remained unchanged since the death of Walburga Black. As he hovered in the doorway to the expansive dining room, hidden under the safety of a Disillusionment Charm, Draco remembered attending dinner parties with his mother's family in his early childhood. These were not common events—Lucius Malfoy did not appreciate Walburga's snide remarks concerning the purity of the Malfoy bloodline compared to that of the Blacks. Narcissa, however, was not one to ever turn down an invitation and Lucius was never one to say no to his wife. Mother and Father would attend dressed in the finest designer robes, and Draco himself was adorned in silks tailored from Rome and Paris and sometimes England. How easy it was, to be his father's little lordling back then. _

_ "—so we know for sure what the ring was, and that Dumbledore destroyed it." Granger was saying while Potter and Weasley nodded along. Her voice caught on Dumbledore's name and Draco rolled his eyes at the girl's sentimentality for the old fool. Books were strewn about the table though the only one actually reading them was Granger, her head bent over one of the ancient tomes while the boys looked on in various stages of boredom not unlike what Draco witnessed from them in class. He got the feeling that this was a discussion they had gone over more than once. _

_ Nonetheless, it piqued his interest. _

_ "Yeah," Potter nodded again and rubbed a hand over his face, leaving his glasses askew in the process. "Which leaves the cup, the sword, and Ravenclaw's diadem." _

_ Weasley groaned and slammed his book shut, causing Granger to purse her lips at him. Draco doubted he was actually capable of reading anyway. "There's the locket too. Blimey, how many are out there? Where _ are _ they?" _

_ Draco racked his brain for any relevant information regarding the seemingly random objects the trio was talking about, but it was a futile attempt. He found he could not even recall the Headmaster with a ring of any kind, which was quite pathetic given his mission of the past year. _

_ Draco sighed. It was an interesting conversation, he would grudgingly admit, but he would not give the trio the satisfaction of knowing he was listening and curious. He was overcome with the desire to return to his room immediately and cocoon under the covers of Regulus Black's thick duvet. _

_ A solid plan, that. Until the Merlin forsaken floorboards creaked under his feet. _

_ Potter, Granger, and Weasel bolted upright immediately, three wands drawn at once. "Who's there?" Potter called, a feral look in his eye Draco hadn't seen since—since that night in the prefect's bathroom. Potter's wand hand was shaking, and Draco felt himself tense immediately at the reminder of that fateful night. _

_ Blood and water and tears sluicing together, creating pink rivulets on the tiles. Myrtle's scream of anguish—or perhaps ecstasy at the idea of having a prospective friend in the hell she lived in. The colour draining from Potter's face as he realised, and his tearful, choked apology, and Severus whispering the spell over and over, like a prayer, as his bleeding gradually slowed. _

_ Draco remembered it all, now. _

_ "I'm here." He somehow managed to keep his voice steady as he revealed himself, and slid his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling. "Or am I expected to be a prisoner of war here, Potter? Within my own family's home might I add." _

_ "Yes!" Weasley spat before Potter had the chance to say anything. "You're a fucking Death Eater, Malfoy. You're lucky that Harry even allows you to eat with us. Sneaking around to weasel back information to daddy's friends?" _

_ Draco turned his steely gaze to the ginger, a cruel smirk lifting at his lips. "It comes as no surprise that you're so tetchy about food, Weasley, when this is probably the only place besides Hogwarts where you've been able to eat three meals a day." Weasley's nostrils flared and his face flushed an unflattering puce. _

_ "Ron, don't let him get to you," Potter muttered, clapping a hand on his best friend's back. Draco noticed Granger murmuring something in Weasley's ear, her fingers rubbing small circles on his arm as though soothing an angry Hippogriff. "He's right, Malfoy. What were you doing eavesdropping? These conversations, they're confidential." He was pacing back and forth now, and Draco wondered why he never noticed how anxious Potter was previously. "This is—it's life or death, and you. You haven't even explicitly stated you're on our side, have you?" _

_ Draco had not. "I—" _ I needed to escape that crypt of a room before I lost even more of my mind, _ he thought. "I refuse to choose a side, Potter. I wish to remain unaffiliated. It's the best course of action one can take in such times." _

_ Granger barked a laugh, harsher than he expected from her, but then again she was always severe when it came to him. "Neutrality is hardly a respectable position, Malfoy. You may as well just continue to remain on the side of the oppressor in that case." _

_ "I wouldn't expect you of all people to understand." _

_ "No," Granger agreed, her eyebrows creasing in thought. "I suppose I never will." _

_ "But you're here, aren't you?" Potter asked. Draco's eyes snapped to him immediately, his brow rising lazily to appear uninterested on instinct even though he was anything but. "You're here and that must count for something. It _ is _ something." _

_ Fucking Potter and his endless fountain of idealism. It counts for nothing, Draco wanted to say. It counts for nothing but ensuring my own survival. All it means is that I, in the end, could not even do what was expected of me. _

_ Draco scoffed. "Believe what you want, Potty. If deluding yourself by projecting your Gryffindor ideals of chivalry onto everyone helps you sleep at night, then so be it." _

_ He was no longer in the mood for conversation. _

*

"You mustn't wallow, darling." 

Draco grits his teeth and marvels that they haven't turned to a fine powder yet. Perhaps he can use them in one of his potions; at the rate he's going it isn't far-fetched. "I'm not _ wallowing _, Mother." Narcissa stands in the doorway of his bedroom but he doesn't deign to glance over at her, choosing instead to keep his eyes trained on the pristine white surface of his ceiling. It's an oft-repeated activity that has lead to Draco getting very acquainted with the particular patterns on the stone tiles. 

"Bichette tells me you've been here for hours." Narcissa slinks from the doorway into his bedroom, perching herself delicately at the foot of his bed. Now that she's directly in his line of vision Draco is forced to look at her, and he notes the glass of wine, half-full, held by the stem between her fingers. His mother is beautiful, and, dressed in lavender silk robes with her white-blonde hair curling elegantly down her back, is supremely overdressed for house arrest. For a moment, Draco is taken back to memories of his childhood: they would have balls at the Manor, charity functions for whichever politician Lucius was currying favour with at the moment. His mother would always make sure Draco was in bed no later than ten, and sometimes she would check up on him to make sure he was alright. He would feign sleep then, all to feel the brush of his mother's warm lips against his forehead and the kiss of her silk gowns against his cheek. 

These days Narcissa Malfoy and the Manor receive no visitors. Seeing through her denial for what it is, Draco decides not commenting on it will fare better for both of their mental health. 

"Perhaps I simply have nothing better to do," he retorts, lifting his chin in childlike defiance. That couldn't be farther from the truth—a letter from none other than Potter himself arrived this morning, and is tucked away safe and unopened inside Draco's robe pocket. There are things to do, but he doesn't have the energy to do them, and Potter is a whole other can of worms that he refuses to open. "And what have you done to pass the time, Mother?" He's being petulant and Draco knows this, but is unable to stop himself. 

Silence stretches between the pair of them for what feels like an eternity, Narcissa's eyes boring into his. Draco can make out a muscle faintly twitching in his mother's cheek, a sign that she's upset. An admonishment never comes, though, and instead he watches as she seems to deflate, taking a heavy sip from her wine glass. It would be easier if she yelled at him, showed some type of emotion; anything would be better than this defeated version of his mother. 

"I went to Hogsmeade the other day." His voice rings out through the quiet of his bedroom, louder than he anticipated. There's a loose, defiant thread unraveling from his emerald bedsheets and Draco tugs at it, twirling it with his fingers just for the sake of doing something. 

Narcissa doesn't so much as blink. An eyebrow rises in interest as she asks, "Did you?" At Draco's nod she hums in approval, a strained smile that's much more of a grimace playing about her lips. "I see. One must always make sure to get fresh air. I hear it's beneficial for our health." 

There's a tightness around her lips and eyes that Draco never previously noticed before the war. He has the brief and unsettling thought that perhaps his mother is jealous of him; envious of his ability to leave the Manor as he pleases, to rejoin society if he so desires. _ My perceived freedom is a cage, Mother. _ He pushes the thought away, guilt eating at him for even thinking such a thing. 

His visit into Hogsmeade had been anything but pleasant. The decision to forgo a Glamour was one Draco found himself sorely regretting as several wizards and witches recognised him immediately and made their displeasure known. There was no violence thankfully—save for a poorly executed Tripping Jinx that could have ended up way worse—but the insults and death wishes hurled unsettled him all the same. He didn't doubt that if any of them were brave enough they would cast an Unforgivable right then, not that it would matter, because a dead Malfoy meant one less for the Ministry to deal with. Maybe his killer would even receive an Order of Merlin. 

"I...I went to the Three Broomsticks." His mother's mouth opens as though she's about to interrupt but Draco continues, "I—had to see Rosmerta, the barmaid. I needed to apologise to her." The decision to apologise to Rosmerta had been an almost manic impulse, an itch under his skin desperate to get out of his system. He'd foolishly composed a mental list, thinking that if he apologised to each person he'd wronged during the war then the guilt would be purged. 

"Draco—" 

"Do you know what she said to me, Mother?" Draco is aware his voice is rising but it's out of his control now as he remembers, remembers how the pretty barmaid's face had gone devoid of colour upon seeing him, her hardened eyes making the hatred obvious. A wizard had even drawn his wand but Rosmerta assured the man that it wasn't worth it, and if anyone were to do the honours then she wanted it to be her and her alone. "She told me that if I were to ever step foot into her establishment again she'd have no qualms casting an Unforgivable on me, or worse, she said, because I didn't deserve the dignity of a quick death, not after—" 

"Draco." Narcissa's cool hand against his own brings him back to reality, and Draco takes several breaths to regain his composure. _ Acting like a hysterical woman will do nothing to help you now, _ his father's voice whispers in the recesses of his mind. "I think you will find it a valuable lesson to learn that not everyone in this life will like you, my dragon." She pats his hand and smiles at him sadly before draining the rest of her wine and Vanishing away the glass. The burgundy liquid has stained her lips a striking red against her pale skin. "It's hard to accept, but all the important life lessons are." 

He shakes his head slowly, knowing that she'll never understand. "No, they—they hate us, Mother." 

Pale eyebrows draw together as Narcissa tilts her head in a silent declaration of, _ so what _? 

"And what of it?" Draco feels the loose thread snap between his fingers. "There will always be people who don't agree with your principles, Draco. You shouldn't deem it necessary to crave their approval or even consort with such a crowd, darling. A dragon is never preoccupied with the opinion of sheep." She crosses her legs and shakes her head almost to herself, an amused smirk ghosting on her lips. "Did you really expect someone from Rosmerta's background to understand us and all we've done? Does it matter that much to you if she doesn't?" 

Narcissa Malfoy is beautiful, and terrible, and cold. 

Draco can do nothing but stare at his mother in disbelief, his mouth having gone dry. Such thinking is what landed them into this predicament in the first place. He's dimly aware of her giving his hand another pat and a reassuring squeeze, but he's long since stopped paying attention to the words coming out of her mouth. 

"I've been in correspondence with Iris Parkinson," Narcissa is saying, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil of her son, "and we both believe it would benefit you to spend some time at the Parkinson's summer home in Greece. Pansy has been rather lonely, she tells me." 

At that, Draco's head snaps up. "_ What _?" he hisses incredulously. 

"It will do you well, too, to escape this political climate for awhile," Narcissa continues, ignoring his outburst. "You two are still friends, aren't you?" 

Draco scrambles out of his bed so fast that he may as well have Apparated to the other side of his chambers. The idea would be tempting if he kept in contact with Pansy at all since his leaving the Death Eaters and the subsequent end of the war. "So what—do you truly believe that if you send me away long enough, when I come back this will all be over? The world doesn't work like that Mother." Draco runs a hand through his unstyled hair, not bothering to care about his appearance. 

Narcissa rises as well, her thin nostrils flaring in barely concealed frustration. "Give the people long enough and they will forget about this, Draco. In a month or so they'll direct their anger elsewhere, towards mundane things. Once that happens we can focus on rebuilding our family name." 

"I refuse to." The words leave his mouth unbidden before he's even aware of speaking them; not for the first time Draco wonders when, exactly, he lost the careful control over himself that he's always been proud of having. 

"Draco." 

He exhales heavily through his nose. "Alright. Fine." Running from his problems has always been a talent of his, and these days Britain doesn't have much to offer him. His mother is looking out for his best interest, and Draco knows that she would join him, were she able to.

His mother blinks up at him for a moment before collecting herself. "You're making the right decision," she assures before her long fingers unfasten the necklace around her neck; it's a simple gold chain that he's never seen her wear before and upon first impression would be far too plebeian for her expensive taste. With a sudden quickness she shoves it into his hand, closing his fingers around it before he can make sense of what's happening. "I'll shrink your belongings and have Archimedes send them to you before the night's over. You've ten seconds before you're to arrive." 

Draco feels that all too familiar tug behind his navel and he cries out in shock as the world spins around him, all of the words he meant to say never leaving his lips. He gets one last look at his mother before the walls of his room begin to disappear, and the look on her face is almost apologetic. 

*

_ Slowly, things in Grimmauld Place began to become more bearable. _

_ It was mostly the result of Draco's decision to cease in antagonising the trio; and that was a decision not borne out of any goodwill for them, but his resigned acceptance that for the duration of the war he was to stay here. No one would admit that, of course, but they didn't have to; Draco knew, and while it could hardly be called ideal circumstances, he had to admit it was better than being at the Manor. He still refused to outright speak to Weasley, which seemed to be good enough for the ginger, but Granger could almost be considered pleasant company. In any case, her extensive library provided a nice form of escapism during the days and nights where his mind was nothing but a mess of muddled anxieties. _

_ Potter remained insufferable as ever, as did that bright-eyed look he gave Draco whenever he interacted with Granger or was civil with Weasley. As though Potter was analysing him, and was proud of whatever conclusions he drew. _

_ Tonight Granger and Weasley were off at an Order meeting. Potter refused to tell him that outright, coughing awkwardly and muttering that it was 'erm, confidential, you know?' but Draco was far from dull and took that for what it was; a confirmation. He didn't question why the Order's Golden Boy was apparently not present at this meeting. It was the unspoken agreement that he couldn't be left alone in Grimmauld, and Draco found himself grateful that Potter was the one to babysit him instead of Granger or, Merlin forbid, Weasley. _

_ Since they were essentially in hiding, food in Grimmauld was understandably hard to come by. Most of their stock was pilfered from raids done by alternating members of the trio, and as Granger insisted on cooking, the food was lacklustre at best and inedible at worst. Draco was silently amazed at how a girl who was so gifted in almost every subject failed to wrap her head around cooking, though he knew better than to speak that out loud. With Granger gone, Kreacher was finally able to make them dinner, much to the happiness of the old elf; and while his beef bourguignon wasn't comparable to the way Draco's elf Bichette made it, it would do. Potter eyed his warily for several seconds before finally lifting the spoon to his lips, tasting it hesitantly. _

_ "What's the matter, Potter?" Draco asked, amusement creeping into his voice. "I know it's far from the beans on toast you're accustomed to, but I promise you it won't bite." Even his insults with Potter had toned down into something that could almost be referred to as banter. _

_ Potter chewed thoughtfully around a carrot. He swallowed, throat bobbing, and Draco noticed a spot of red wine sauce in the corner of his mouth. "No, it's good." He scooped another spoonful as though to emphasise his point. Draco rolled his eyes. "But I mean—how d'you just, I dunno, make him do this?" _

_ "It's his job," Draco replied slowly, eyeing the other man cautiously. He sincerely hoped that Potter wouldn't decide now was the time to adopt Granger's compassion for elves. "They enjoy serving us and take great offense if you don't allow them to. It's quite literally their job—not even, it's their life, really." _

_ "Do you truly believe that?" Potter asked, his spoonful of bourguignon forgotten, and Draco suddenly had the feeling he was referring to much more than the duties of a house-elf. _

_ He decided not to entertain that conversation. "Considering I've grown up around house-elves—" _

_ "No, not—I'm not just talking about elves, Malfoy. I mean all of it. The pureblood supremacy bullshit that your family believes in. Is that—do you believe in it too, still?" _

_ There it was. _

_ Draco wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin, the roughness of it no doubt leaving his pale skin red. He didn't need one, really, but he was desperate to do something to occupy himself as he thought of a way to answer that question without hearing a sermon from Potter. There were some beliefs that he didn't think he would ever truly shake; having grown up in the magical world, for instance, he wasn't sure if he would ever truly understand or not be cautious around Muggles after all they'd done to those like him. He certainly didn't hate Muggle-borns anymore, though a Muggle-born could never completely assimilate into wizarding culture, no matter how much they tried. There would always be too much of a disconnect between them, and there was no way to truly bridge that gap. _

_ He doubted that was the answer Potter was looking for. "I'm _ … _ not going to discuss that," he said at last, keeping his voice measured. "Not with you and not right now." A muscle in Potter's jaw twitched and he looked ready to argue that, before finally he nodded in grim acceptance and went back to his food. Awkward silence hung between the pair like an iron curtain, and Draco found that he didn't like it. He actually enjoyed conversing with Potter, though that very well may have been cabin fever speaking. _

_ Still, he clearly had the better decorum between the two of them and he would not disgrace his mother by putting that to waste. "So." Draco cleared his throat and Potter looked up, that damn splotch of sauce still present in the corner of his mouth. He was a lost cause. "How is the Weaselette faring? Is she sending you love letters and forget-me-nots in your absence?" _

_ Potter ignored the nickname, his thick brows drawing together in thought. "Ginny? She's, er, good, I s'pose. From what Ron and Hermione tell me anyway. I haven't talked to her much." _

_ Draco maintained a neutral face despite the shock at the bomb Potter just dropped. "You two aren't—?" _

_ "No," Potter shook his head, the black tresses becoming messier at the simple action. A pink tongue darted out to lick at his lips and once he tore his eyes away from that, Draco saw a wistful sadness etched on Potter's face. "I broke up with her before—before all of this. Didn't think she needed to be dragged into it." There was a sort of nobility in that, Draco supposed, and once upon a time he would have sneered at how chivalrous an action that was for Saint Potter; now he knew better, knew that war made saints and sinners out of the best and worst of men alike. "What about Parkinson? She miss you?" _

_ "Parkinson?" Draco echoed, his brow wrinkling. He couldn't remember the last time he saw her, let alone had a proper conversation with the girl. "I suppose so," he answered thoughtfully, setting his cutlery down. Kreacher would arrive with a simple snap of his fingers, but Draco didn't want to beckon him, didn't want to ruin this discussion with Potter. "Our families have been on friendly terms for decades." He recalled Pansy Parkinson; her manicured nails and sleek black bob, her cackling laugh, the way she always smelled of citrus when he got close enough to notice. _

_ Potter nodded, his mouth pursed in an 'o' shape. "Ah, so it's like, an arranged thing then?" _

_ "Well I've known her for half my life, so we're definitely acquainted." _

_ "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Potter quipped, looking suddenly too smug for his own good. Draco narrowed his eyes. _

_ "Calling _ what _ ? What are you going on about?" _

_ This time it was Potter's turn to look confused, his eyes widening almost comically. Draco was suddenly aware of just how green his eyes were. "Oh, I thought you two were, well, you know." His skin flushed and he ran a hand through his already unkempt hair, laughing to himself as he did so. "Wow." _

_ Draco caught the implication. "No." The prospect of him dating Pansy Parkinson didn't amuse him in any way, though he knew that Potter was not the only one who believed they were dating. Even his own mother had questioned him discreetly about it, and each year picked out more elaborate gifts for Pansy for Christmas in what Draco suspected was a rather intricate dowry. She wasn't an ugly girl but Draco simply wasn't attracted to her, despite her best efforts; and there was a small fear building within him that the problem would not be remedied even with another girl. He would sometimes lay awake at night in the dungeons, mentally going through the most attractive girls in his year and swallowing down his increasing panic at his body's failure to respond to fantasies of any of them. _

_ He grit his teeth as he observed Potter in his amusement over something that wasn't even funny. "Are you quite done?" _

_ "Sorry," Potter choked out between laughter. He slid a finger under his glasses to wipe at his eyes, and Draco didn't refrain from rolling his. It was hardly that funny. As the other man's body began to shake with laughter again Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh, and that sent Potter over the edge in hysterics. "It's just—Jesus, your face! You should've seen your face when you understood me, Malfoy!" _

_ "Hilarious," Draco deadpanned, leaning back in his seat. "Have you considered that maybe it wasn't that funny, and the Great Harry Potter has just gone mad?" _

_ "That is, I'm afraid, quite possible," Potter said soberly, his efforts of maintaining a straight face dubious at best. _

_ Now it was Draco's turn to laugh, a short, barking sound. "Heaven help us all," he said, and this time when Potter smiled, Draco found himself smiling back. _

_*_

_ Merlin help me, I'm fucking boiling, _ is Draco's first thought once he gains his footing. The Portkey appears to have landed him in Pansy's bedroom; the Parkinson's summer estate is almost as grand as the Manor, and Pansy's bedroom is no exception. Sunlight filters in through gauzy white curtains and casts an orange glow upon the pristine white walls. The whiteness of the places makes the view of the impossibly blue Aegean sea that much more contrasting, and Draco finds that the sight does take his breath away, even if he is woefully overdressed for the weather. Hopefully Mother will make good on her promise of sending his owl with his belongings soon. 

Pansy is out on the balcony, visible through the open French doors. Her back is to him and she makes no move to greet Draco, not even after he opens the door and stands in the doorway, observing her. She tenses slightly once he closes the door, her only tell that she knows he's there. The black bob Pansy always favoured has grown almost past her shoulders now, and Draco tries not to think of how long it's been since he last spoke to her. He can't recall their last conversation, or the last time he saw her, but he's suddenly hit with the knowledge that the war has aged all of them enough for a lifetime. 

"Well," Pansy says at last, still staring steadfastly at the sea before her. Draco can make out the cries of gulls in the distance. "Decided to grace me with your presence at last, have you?" 

"Pansy," Draco rasps out, words and composure having left him long ago. "I…" 

She turns to face him then, her large, brown eyes rolling in fond exasperation. "Oh, hush." And then she's closing the distance between them, her small arms thrown around his neck and Draco stiffens immediately at the contact before relaxing into it. He presses his nose into her hair and inhales, finding comfort in the familiar smell of his childhood friend. Draco knows in his heart of hearts that he hasn't always been kind to Pansy, that their friendship has always teetered on the edge of genuine and superficial. There were no secrets exchanged between the two of them, nor a deep and inseparable bond; just two individuals who knew that a friendship between them would be beneficial for both families involved. Still, Pansy was always a friend, and she was truer to that role than most of Slytherin house. Draco is aware that she worried about him during those long months of the war and feels a pang of guilt in his chest. 

"I was starting to think you'd forgot about me," she remarks lightly, drawing back from their embrace. A flick of her wand sees a decanter and two glasses floating out onto the balcony, and Draco observes as a generous amount of blood-red liquid is poured into each glass. At his raised eyebrow she shoots him a dazzling smile, her straight teeth glittering like knives. "Elf wine, babe. Mother's left me with nothing but the best."

Draco glances at her quizzically. "Your mother isn't here?" 

Pansy stares at him in bemusement. "No," she answers, as though it was obvious. "Mother is still in England. She suggested that staying here would do me some good, since…" she trails off and Draco nods in quick understanding, not wanting her to dwell on any unfortunate memories. Trying to sell out Potter to the Dark Lord wasn't one of Pansy's finer moments, but he sympathises with her; understands why she did it, in a warped way. The news that both of their mothers have deemed it fit to send them off is hardly surprising. Since he's grown older he's learned how his parents, or Father anyway, used his riches to win over his child's affection. _ Love matters not when you have money, Draco. _This getaway is just another example of that; an apology from parents who see nothing wrong with their actions, who have no idea how to interact with the children they raised to be extensions of themselves. 

"I see." Draco accepts his glass, clinks it against Pansy's. Elvish wine is strong but bittersweet and it burns his chest on the way down, sends warmth blooming through his already warm chest. "Have you been drinking all day?"

Pansy mirrors his action, taking a large sip of her wine before replying. "Not today, no, but there's little else to do." She swirls the burgundy liquid around the glass as she speaks, her eyes staring at something behind Draco. "There's a small magical community here, but very few are fluent in English. The men are to die for, though, so I have all the entertainment I need." Draco laughs at the conspiratorial smirk gracing her lips. She drains the rest of her glass and quickly pours herself a second; not wanting to be the odd fellow out, Draco makes work of downing the rest of his. It burns, but it's nothing compared to the scotch his father would allow him to secretly sip on occasion. 

"Anyway, that's quite enough about me. Tell me _ everything _ you've been up to, Draco, and don't even think of leaving a detail out. I've heard tales of your little scheme from Daphne."

"Daphne?" Draco repeats, his brows drawing together in confusion. Perhaps it's the wine getting to him, but he feels off-kilter, somehow, like his brain and mouth are on two different wavelengths. "Enlighten me, Pans, on what exactly I've busied myself with." He's affected his usual drawl but he can't help the twitching in his fingers; he's nervous suddenly and he doesn't know why. 

Pansy squints her dark eyes at him. "It's no secret that you betrayed the Death Eaters for the Order. A lot of the old families were shocked at the news but the rumour was that you knew what you were doing." Leaning back against the golden rail of the balcony, she smirks up at him through dark lashes. "It really was a brilliant plan, I suppose, though I can't help but wonder if you had a death wish to even think of going through it." 

"Plan?" Draco echoes, unable to stop himself. He'll berate himself later for appearing dull-witted, that's for certain, but he can't follow Pansy's cryptic words regarding the ordeal. She blinks at him, clearly waiting for him to deliver something brilliant.

"Well, yes. To know that the Death Eaters would lose, and then seek help from the Order, of all people? I bet your father wishes he did the same." 

Tensing at the mention of his father, Draco closes his eyes for a beat, trying to ignore the imaginary sensation of what feels like ice water being poured on him. "I can assure you that my father wishes no such thing," he manages at last, keeping his eyes on Pansy even though his mind is a million miles away. Lucius Malfoy would rather die than join the ranks of the Order and Draco knows that; there's no excuses to be made for his father any longer. 

Pansy hums in agreement. "Mayhaps you're right." She eyes him for a moment, pressing her lips together in thought as she does so, and then finally, "So I heard about—about the trial. What did you do to get _ Potter _ to speak for you? I'd have thought he'd be the first one to throw you to the wolves.' 

"Oh, you heard about my trial, did you?" Draco asks coldly, straightening himself. The atmosphere between them has chilled considerably and he knows that Pansy can feel it too, if the way she tenses is any indication. Draco's lips tug into that familiar, haughty sneer, and a long-dead part of him relishes in this return to his old armour. "Yes, I suppose you coming to offer my family and I any support was out of the question now that we're _ disgraced _, hm?" 

"Don't be so bloody dramatic." She waves him off irritably, her eyes flashing in anger. A sardonic smirk begins to spread across her wine stained lips and she tilts her head, considering him. "Besides, it isn't like you needed me there. Not when you have Potter now, apparently. Tell me, Draco, does he actually believe in—in whatever this is?" Pansy gestures at him and shakes her head. The sun is setting, bathing her black hair in an orange glow; a comet heading through the solar system, straight towards Draco. "If he does then he's even worse off than I thought." 

_ He does. He doesn't. I don't know. _ "I did what I had to do to survive!" Draco explodes and Pansy's face drains at his outburst but he finds that he can't stop. His fingers have graduated from twitching to outright shaking and Draco clenches them into fists to avoid further embarrassing himself. "We all did—we were children, and you know that. You were right there with me." 

"But I wasn't, was I? You up and went and joined the Order, never mind the fact that your beliefs directly clash with theirs. I bet you still say _ Mudblood _too." Pansy laughs, low and mocking as she steps towards him, her manicured hand wrapping around his forearm. His Mark, dead and mottled, pulses below his shirt. "It's one thing to do what you can to survive, but don't fancy yourself as better than any of us because of it. You aren't some martyr, Draco, you're the same as you've always been." 

Later that night, as Draco lies awake listening to the sounds of the sea crashing against rocks on the shore, his thoughts keep traveling to Potter and the unopened letter hidden in his robe pocket. With a resigned sigh he Summons a quill and parchment before casting a quick _ Lumos _that engulfs the tip of his wand in light. He knows what he has to do. 

*

_ Despite the improvement of his stay in Grimmauld upgrading to 'almost tolerable', tension was still prone to rearing its insidious head. _

_ Most nights were spent with the four of them huddled in front of the wireless; Potter, Weasley, and Granger would sit in various positions of comfort on the carpet, the former two sprawled on their sides or their stomachs while Granger sat cross-legged and perfectly straight, her dexterous fingers occasionally picking at loose threads in the fabric as a nervous habit. It was palace-sized and vintage, an authentic Persian that must have cost Orion Black quite a few Galleons, but now was threadbare and faded. Appalled at the idea of getting dust on his clothes when he'd already only packed a meager few with him, Draco claimed the sofa as his own. A Rococo antique, it matched the overall aesthetic of the Black mansion, though like everything else it clearly saw better days. _

_ Potterwatch. Once upon a time Draco would've found the name endlessly entertaining, moreso for the idea of using it to further taunt Potter; and while some pastimes never truly got old, Draco found that teasing Potter because of his notoriety had lost its touch. How could he do such a thing, when the fate of their world as they knew it rested in Potter's hands? He would never admit it out loud but the war had taught Draco that the spotlight Potter was thrust into was nothing to be envious of—having shared his home with the Dark Lord, Draco knew firsthand that nothing which drew _ His _ ire was anything short of terrifying. _

_ Granger had muttered the password—'Vance'—and tinny voices rang out from the machine. Royal and River (who Draco swore sounded just like that annoying Quidditch announcer who'd graduated a few years back) spoke at length about the numerous individuals acquainted with Potter, the Ministry's rapidly increasing decline into complete corruption, and updates on the 'Chief Death Eater'. _

_ "An explosion in Leeds has left five Muggles injured and three Death Eaters dead," Royal's rich timber spoke, and Draco felt his blood run cold. "No other casualties are known at this time." _

_ "Cheers, I'll drink to that!" Weasley hooted, Summoning a bottle of Firewhisky and some tumblers over to his spot on the carpet. Granger huffed and rolled her eyes, muttering a disapproving 'Ronald' under her breath before sharing a look with Potter, who then subsequently shot a worried glance Draco's way. This was another part of their nightly routine, the pair of them treating Draco like he was made of glass whenever a deceased Death Eater was mentioned; almost like they were afraid that he would mourn for whoever it was, or worse, use the death as a reason to revert back to the Dark Lord's side at the Manor. He could understand that line of thinking but it was the way Potter especially would walk on eggshells around him whenever the topic of the war and his family's side in it came up that irked him, and tonight was no exception. It wasn't that he was particularly fond of the likes of Selwyn and Mulciber, but for the past few days a persistent thought had begun to take root in his mind: what if it was his father one day whose death was announced on the wireless? Would he be able to mourn for the man who raised him? Would Potter and his friends celebrate? _

_ What if his father was already dead, one of the countless unnamed and unidentified, and Draco was blissfully ignorant? _

_ He'd excused himself from the foyer not long after, only to be met with another wary glance from Potter and Granger, much to his chagrin. Draco had retired to his bedroom where he remained since then, trying to cease his thoughts so he could finally fall asleep. Sleep remained teasingly elusive during wartime, and no matter how long he kept his eyes closed the darkness wouldn't come to claim him for longer than thirty minutes. _

_ And then the screaming began. _

_"I must say that such ruffian nonsense never occurred before _certain types _of people took up residence here!" Orion Black's portrait sneered through a stifled yawn. Draco barely heard him, his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears. He grabbed his wand from beneath his pillow and cast a silent _Lumos_, his eyes darting around the room wildly as he tried to slow his heart rate. For a moment he felt like he was once again trapped in the Manor, listening to the screams of the tortured souls chained in the dungeons. A cough sounded behind him and Draco felt his heart leap again in his throat, only for him to feel quite foolish when he turned and met the eyes of Regulus Black. _

_ "Allow me to apologise for my father," Regulus said wryly, his thin shoulders lifting into a half-hearted shrug. He carried the same haughty, disdainful look as the rest of the Black family, but there was something more—a sadness—that lingered in Regulus. Whoever painted this portrait—which Draco would guess was painted a year or two before Regulus' demise—made sure to include that tragedy in almost every brush stroke, especially his haunting eyes. "Us purebloods never have been much for compassion or empathy, as you very well know." _

_ Draco remained silent, staring at the portrait with wide eyes. He had the feeling that Regulus wasn't done yet, and while the screaming disturbed him, something in him wanted to wait to hear what else this dead man had to say. " _ He _ has the ability to see into all of our minds, and it appears that Mr Potter is no different. I remember those nights myself—terrible, lonely nights that seemed to last a lifetime." Regulus regarded him with interest, his dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. "But I presume you know about that already, don't you? Go to him, Draco Malfoy. To be a hero is a lonely fate, though I would never dream of claiming such a title _ … _ " _

_ Draco didn't have to be told twice and practically ran out of the bedroom, not wanting to hear any more of Regulus' cryptic riddles. The Dark Lord being a skilled Legilimens was old news, though that did nothing to soothe Draco's nerves as he whispered _ 'Alohomora' _ and frantically threw the door open to Potter's room. Living in the Manor during its occupation meant he knew how to carefully listen and become acquainted with the sound of footsteps and their owners, and so Draco knew Granger and Weasley slept in a separate bedroom down the hall, together. While the knowledge of that alone almost made him want to retch, Draco found himself grateful that the almost-couple wasn't there now; he wasn't sure he would be able to bear Granger's curious eyes silently questioning why he was there when he didn't even know the answer to that himself. Potter lay thrashing on his bed, his eyes squeezed shut and his bedsheets thrown off of him in a silky puddle on the floor. A series of whimpers and unintelligible words escaped his mouth; hands flew to clutch at his head and then he _ howled _ , the sheer horror of the sound sending shivers down Draco's spine. _

_ "Potter!" Draco whispered from the edge of the bed and when that had no effect, he crawled closer to the other man, hovering over him. "Potter, wake up!" Reaching out, he gave Potter's broad shoulder an impatient shake, his nails digging into the thin fabric of Potter's pyjama shirt. That did the trick and Potter woke with a choked gasp, bolting upright almost immediately. His eyes were wide against the light of Draco's _ Lumos _ , the brightness serving to highlight the brilliance of those green orbs. _

_ "M-Malfoy?" he rasped, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "What are you—?" Potter shifted as though to further prove his point of asking why he woke up to Draco Malfoy of all people in his bed. Their noses were almost touching and Draco could see a smattering of freckles on the bridge of Potter's nose, along with several dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He'd been crying in his sleep, Draco realised, and he suddenly felt embarrassed — at the proximity and at seeing Potter so exposed, so emotionally raw. He fought the blush that threatened to spill onto his cheeks and sat up, straightening his back. _

_ "You were _ … _ having a nightmare." _

_ Potter had the decency to look surprised. "How did you—oh, bugger." He sighed and raked a hand through his messy curls in a gesture Draco came to recognise as a nervous habit. "I may have put up wards to prevent Ron and Hermione from getting in here but I reckon I forgot to do the same for you." Potter laughed, quiet and sheepish, like he was confessing to some boyish accident instead of intentionally keeping his two best friends out of his room. _

_ "You put up wards to keep them out?" Draco echoed incredulously, all previous feelings of sympathy having evaporated to be replaced by swift irritation. "Does your stupidity know no bounds, Potter? What if something were to happen to you?" _

_ "They're just nightmares, Malfoy," Potter frowned, the stubborn set of his jaw working. "Besides, you all deserve a good night's sleep that doesn't involve, well, this." His eyes remained on Draco for several seconds, searching for something unknown. Then his face softened. "You weren't asleep." _

_ Draco snorted inelegantly. The bloody nerve of this man and that fucking portrait alike! He decided that this would be his good deed of the year, as apparently any acts of kindness were fruitless. "Of course I wasn't bloody asleep! How could I, after—after listening to the damned wireless before, and then hearing your screams! Fuck," he broke off, chest heaving. Losing composure never did anyone any good, and Draco wondered when exactly did he begin to chip away at the few remaining pieces of his dignity. Potter's hand clasped his arm and Draco stiffened at the contact before slowly relaxing into it. _

_ "Malfoy—" he began, but Draco cut him off. _

_ "He used Legilimency on you, didn't he. He saw into your mind." It was a blunt statement, not a question, and the minute stiffening of Potter's body told Draco he was correct. He pursed his lips, not used to the sensation of feeling sympathy for the Gryffindor. "Regulus' portrait told me as much." Never one to reveal his feelings, Draco was left feeling haplessly exposed by this whole ordeal. He averted his eyes. _

_ Potter laughed, low and sardonic. "It isn't Legilimency," he said quietly, his eyes focused on a spot behind Draco. "It's _ … _ it's more than that. We, er, share visions, him and I. I can see what he's doing sometimes, and the same goes for him." He spoke casually, like he was discussing the weather as opposed to the reality of one of the most powerful, sadistic wizards being able to see into his mind and apparently share visions through the link. Draco gaped, unable to help himself. _

_ "Salazar above, Potter, it's almost like—" _

_ "I saw your family," Potter spoke at once and Draco quieted, leaning forward before he was consciously aware of it. "They're _ … _ well, er, they look fine. Living with him is taking a toll on them but they appear physically fine. No injuries or anything of that sort." His lips lifted into what he probably thought was a reassuring smile but came off instead as strained, and if Potter had perceived Draco's desperation he was kind enough not to mention it. Draco's mind was swimming with questions; was his family truly okay? Did they face any repercussions for his deeds? Did the Dark Lord know where he was? He knew better than to voice them, though, and the news that his family was safe for now was enough for him. Feeling the energy drain from him, he collapsed onto the bed, sinking into the softness of it. _

_ "Thank you," he breathed out into the dark. Potter made a noise of acknowledgment, a deep hum that rumbled from his chest. It was quiet for several seconds before Draco spoke out. "I can't even begin to imagine what it's like, seeing into his mind. But I experience night terrors too. Some of them _ … _ I think I'd go mad if I were ever to speak of them, to acknowledge them as true memories." He suppressed a shiver. Indeed, living in the Manor felt like it was another lifetime; how could he even begin to reconcile Greyback, with his bloody fangs and affinity for Muggle women, with real life? With this life? _

_ "Nobody escapes a war unscathed, which is why you've got to be fine with the choices you make. If you're gonna die, make sure it won't be in vain and hope that it'll be for a better world." Draco could feel Potter looking at him and so he hummed in agreement, the other man's words striking a chord deep within him. He didn't want to die—that's why he chose to defect. If that was a coward's move, then so be it; Draco knew that that was what he was, knew that he was anything but honourable. _

_ "What do you do for the nightmares?" Potter asked a few minutes later, when Draco thought he'd since fallen asleep. He still sounded relatively awake; not that Draco was faring much better, but he did not want to entertain conversation at this time. _

_ "I think of my mother," he blurted without thinking, and closed his eyes at admitting such a fact. The statement in itself wasn't what troubled him—Draco found no embarrassment in loving his mother, unlike some of his other peers—but rather who he was sharing the sentiment with. The mere act of climbing into Potter's bed to comfort him was laughable enough, and if someone were to tell Draco months ago what his life would lead to, he would've wasted no breath in hexing them. _

_ "I don't remember much about my mum, but I remember _ … _ her smile, if I focus really hard." Potter's voice was wistful and soft, and Draco was aware at once of just how much loss Potter had experienced. He'd made fun of it in the past, cracked jokes about Potter being an orphan, without ever stopping to consider his actions and the truths behind them. He'd sneered at Potter for not having parents and now here he was, listening to his once-nemesis confess that he couldn't even remember his mother's smile. Draco felt something in his chest tighten; having grown up with his mother, flawed as she was, he couldn't imagine a life where he didn't know her. Where her smiles only came to him in his dreams, fleeting and forgotten. _

_ Draco intended to keep his voice measured, but when he finally spoke it was thick with emotion. "My mother would read poetry to me before putting me to sleep, when I was younger. Her favourite was The Faerie Queene by Spenser." He closed his eyes and thought back to those nights when his mother would tuck him in and they would whisper stanzas from the poem in unison. She would smile at him and bend to press a kiss to his forehead after, and Draco would delight in knowing that his mother was proud of him. "For whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought: for there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought." _

_ "That's beautiful." Potter whispered, shifting next to him. Suddenly tired, Draco didn't even care that he wasn't in his usual bed; it was hardly comfortable anyway, and he could do without meddling portraits for the night. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand and Potter laughed at the sight, muttering under his breath about 'posh bastards and their bloody etiquette'. Draco sighed and burrowed his face into the pillow. _

_ "That it is, and yes, that I am. A posh bastard. Goodnight, Potter." _

_ "G'night, Draco. Sweet dreams." _

_ He woke later in the night to find himself and Potter practically wrapped around one another, something that his tired brain was too sluggish to register. Potter woke too, then, those brilliant orbs staring straight into Draco's soul, that goofy, sleepy smile tugging at his heart. "Hullo," Potter whispered, and Draco closed his eyes once more before sleep claimed him once again; it was then that he felt it, a feather-light brushing of _ something _ soft and pillowy against his cheek, and the last thing his mind registered before succumbing was that Potter had kissed him and for whatever reason it was not entirely unpleasant. _

_In the morning Draco woke to an empty bed, the spot on his cheek where Potter's lips had brushed still warm though he told himself it was his mind deceiving him. It had never even happened, Draco would tell himself throughout the day. _You're lonely and have latched on to the person you're closest to. You deceive yourself.

_ There was another part of him, however, that insisted he could not be sure. _

_*_

The last time Draco stepped foot in Muggle London he was a child; it was a week or two before Christmas and Father took him out shopping. The streets were adorned with holiday decorations and Draco was absolutely charmed by the display, until Father discreetly nodded his head in the direction of several Muggle shoppers ahead of them. "Do you see these people, Draco? They may appear similar to us, they walk and even speak the same language we do, but we are not the same. Insipid creatures, they are, and if given the chance they will not hesitate to do what their ancestors did to us or worse." His lip curled the way it always did when he saw something he found particularly disgusting. "Muggles want what they cannot have, even if their misunderstanding of it makes them prone to violence. Such a primitive way of living makes them abhorrent beings, you see." 

And because he was a child who worshipped the ground his father walked on—too young to understand the numerous flaws a parent can have—Draco bowed his head and murmured a "Yes, Father, I understand." 

Now, as he walks the streets of Muggle London he can see little has changed; it's nearly the beginning of autumn now and so the holiday decorations have been swapped for bright lights and advertisements for Happy Hour specials, but everything is still densely populated. A few Muggles spare an odd glance toward him, and Draco mentally sighs, conceding that they aren't wrong in finding his appearance strange. There's a significant lack of casual clothing in the Manor, and so he's dressed in a pale blue button down and grey slacks—a far cry from the hip Muggle fashion that the Londoners seem to favour these days. Swallowing down the rising tide of insecurity, Draco dips into the tea house Potter instructed to meet at. 

It's nondescript, casual even, with none of the flashiness Draco would've expected from Potter—then again, the Gryffindor has always been drawn to underdogs, so to speak. Compared to the rest of the shops on this block, the little cafe is practically deserted, and the girl behind the counter greets him immediately with a smile and a friendly 'hello!'. On a slow day like this she must be happy for some afternoon traffic, even if it is just one person. Draco manages a distracted nod, his eyes already having sought out Potter alone in a back booth. 

Potter looks up from whatever he was doing and shoots Draco a brilliant grin, white teeth flashing. "Oi, Malfoy, didn't think you'd actually come." There are scones already on the table, along with two cups of tea that Draco raises a cautious eyebrow at. Even after their months spent together he won't presume that Potter knows him well enough to correctly guess how he takes his tea, and so he won't deign to bother drinking it. Propped up on the table next to Potter is a small shopping bag, and when Potter catches Draco looking at it, his eyes light up and he slides the bag his way. "Oh, right, I almost forgot. I believe this is yours—just don't, er, take it out or anything." 

"Honestly, Potter, I know how to conduct myself without breaking the Statute," Draco snaps, his thin nostrils flaring. _ His wand. _ He'd never truly forgotten about his wand, of course, but he'd grown used to using his mother's in the months since the war. Tossing his wand to Potter felt like a different lifetime now, and part of him wonders if the wand will actually recognise _ him _ as its owner after everything. Trembling fingers grasp the rough edge of the shopping bag before pulling it quickly towards him to rest on his lap. He knows he must look ridiculous clutching a paper bag on his lap like it's a bloody Kneazle, but Draco can't find it in him to care; being reunited with his wand—the wand that _ chose him _ all those years ago—is bringing an embarrassing rush of warmth through his very core. It's an emotion that he isn't sure he wants the other man to see. 

"I haven't really used it or anything, not since—you know," Potter says softly, idly stirring his tea with his spoon. Occasionally the cutlery _ clangs _ against the porcelain teacup because of his clumsiness, but other than that, Potter looks _ good _. It's a realisation that's startling and disturbing at once. This is perhaps the first time that he looks well-rested, healthy, and happy; a far cry from the scrawny, awkward little boy that Draco met all those years ago at Madam Malkins, practically drowning in his robes. If Draco squints he can see the imprints of purplish half-moons beneath those green eyes but that's hardly surprising—none of them are sleeping well these days. "I don't think I ever thanked you for giving it to me." 

"It's fine," Draco waves him off, uncomfortable with this display of emotional vulnerability. This is charting into dangerous territory. He takes a tentative sip of his tea, and finding it no more than tolerable, sets it back down. "Why did you think I wouldn't come? I did write you, after all." He shifts and draws himself up straight to avoid any unseemly slouching, clasps his hands together. _ A man must always evoke power, _ Father would say, _ and that starts with how you carry yourself. _ He supposes that to any outsider observing the pair, they probably appear to be in the middle of a business deal. Potter observes this display with amusement, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Potter draws in a breath, appearing to contemplate his words carefully. "I dunno, I just—well. I _ did _ choose a Muggle place for our meeting." 

"Yes, Potter, I would turn away my chance of anonymity to venture into Hogsmeade with you. _ That _ would clearly go over well." 

"I suppose it wouldn't," he concedes quietly after a beat. Potter breaks off the corner edge of his napkin and shreds it into smaller several pieces, like confetti. "Do you remember our time back in Grimmauld?" 

_ Fucking hell, Potter, do not go there. _ Draco stiffens immediately, his heart thudding in his chest at the question. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," he drawls at last, making a show of examining his fingernails for any dirt beneath them. He isn't sure if he's ready to even recognise their time together, much less discuss it. 

A dark blush blooms on the high points of Potter's cheeks and he forces a laugh. "No, not—no. I meant that time Kreacher made us that ridiculously posh food, and I asked—"

"You asked me if I still believed in 'all of that shite', as you so eloquently put it." 

"Yes." 

"I distinctly recall saying that I didn't want to discuss that with you back then." Draco slides his still-full cup to the end of the table along with Potter's shredded napkin for any waitresses around to collect. He keeps his face carefully blank while observing the other man. The sound of trainers scuffing the cheap tiled floor tells him that Potter is crossing and uncrossing his legs; a nervous habit. 

"That was then, Malfoy. A lot of time has passed." A thick eyebrow raises over thin frames of Potter's glasses and those green eyes spark with a challenge, almost daring Draco to admit that he still holds those beliefs. He doesn't know what to say—there isn't a way to admit that he _ does _ believe the idea of wizard-Muggle separation isn’t inherently evil without Potter going all typical chivalrous, bleeding-heart Gryffindor. To shed everything that's been instilled in him since childhood is nigh impossible, especially in such a short amount of time, most of which he spent just trying to simply survive. 

That would border on being an acceptable answer, except Draco, ever comfortable in his age-old defense mechanisms, won't allow it. Instead, he narrows his eyes and says: 

"Perhaps you already know the answer, Potter." Those impossibly thick eyebrows draw together in bemusement and he opens his mouth to argue but Draco raises a hand to silence him. A small part of him is surprised when Potter listens. "That's part of why you brought me here, isn't it? The _ Prophet _ would have a field day if they saw their Hero socializing with the disgraced Malfoy son, so you decided on this instead." A harsh, sardonic bark of laughter escapes him, and Draco inwardly flinches at the sound of it. The tight dam within him has burst, however, leading to the tide of annoyance and bitterness that are pouring out of him now. "I admit it took me awhile to see through your facade, Potter, but trust that I do. You've always thought you knew me so well, didn't you? I'll always be the sum of my worst choices to you."

Cold air hits his forearm and it takes Draco a second to realise that at some point during his outburst he's rolled up his sleeve. Stark against the ivory of his skin is the outlined skull and snake, staring back at him. A choked noise, something like a sob, tumbles from his lips and Draco resists the urge to dig his fingers into the Mark and _ scratch _ until it's nothing but scar tissue, raw and pink and clean. 

"Oh, cool tattoo!" A Muggle girl, presumably their waitress, smiles at the pair of them, balancing their cups on a dangerously overcrowded tray. She can't be much older than him, and yet she reminds Draco unpleasantly of Ginevra Weasley, with her freckled face and mane of fiery curls piled high on her head. The streaks of dark brown at the roots suggest that ginger isn't her natural hair colour, and Draco rejoices in finding a perceived flaw in this stranger. "I've always wanted one but my mum's, like, so against them. What made you decide on a snake? I just love the design." She squints, trying to peer closer at it, and Draco rolls his sleeve back down quickly—if not jerkily. 

"That will be all, thank you," he says icily, and when the waitress blinks and smiles at him in uncertainty Draco sends his best sneer her way. Her face falls, and it would be almost comical if not for the look of complete and utter disapproval on Potter's face. Once she's out of earshot he steels his gaze towards Potter, tries to ignore the feeling of dread weighing like stone within. "Pardon me for believing that the likes of these people shouldn't interact with us. They can never even _ begin _ to imagine life within our society, our culture, our _ world. _I mean—Merlin's sake, a tattoo? Really?" His whole body is tightly wound and thrumming, and Draco hates the way that everything is making him feel—Potter and this Muggle waitress and this bloody choice in conversation.

Potter shakes his head slowly, and struck by the knowledge that Potter is scooting his way out of the booth leaves Draco with an empty, wobbling feeling in his chest. He fights against the instinct to reach out, to call stalemate in their discussion, and wins by the sheer force of his dwindling self control and dignity alone. "It isn't—it's not just about that, Malfoy." Potter doesn't even sound angry, but tired, which is considerably worse. "I recognise that wizards were and are ostracised but perhaps if we didn't live in secrecy—no. I thought you'd changed, somehow, but I see I was wrong." He fishes into his denim pocket and slaps some crumpled up paper on the table—Muggle money, Draco realises.

"I think it'd be best if we don't, er, meet up anymore," Potter is saying as he stands awkwardly outside of the booth while Draco foregoes the desire to grab his hand to keep him from leaving. "I just—I can't do this anymore, I can't hear shit like that anymore, not after fighting a fucking _ war _ about it. Enjoy your freedom Malfoy, and try to do something good with it."

Minutes—or hours later, Draco doesn't know—he leaves the tea shop in a daze, only pausing to nod curtly back at the hostess as she bids him farewell. Father's voice rings inside his mind the whole time, and as he steps out onto the street, icy tendrils spread within his chest. It feels suspiciously like his heart is breaking. 

*

_ Sleep did not come easily during times of terror, and most nights dreams teased Draco's eyelids like a playful lover, allowing him to drift off before startling him awake with thoughts of the gruesome horrors that he witnessed at the Manor. He was used to functioning on four or less hours of sleep by now, and while it wasn't ideal, he was alive, so Draco couldn't complain much. Tonight was no different; after waking from a particularly visual nightmare featuring Fenrir Greyback, Draco lay with his eyes squeezed shut in the darkness, his room quiet save for the sound of his shallow breathing, hoping rest would claim him once more. Not five minutes did he sense a presence in his room and so Draco reached for his wand, pulling himself up immediately, only to be faced with the most brilliantly white light he ever saw. _

_A stag stood, ethereal and wispy, at the foot of his bed. The animal blinked slowly at him before stepping forward, nuzzling against the leg of his pyjamas. Draco felt nothing—not the solid fur that he would were it a living animal—except for a cool gust of air. Dazed, he stared down at the apparition, wondering who on Earth had sent it. _

_ "Er, Malfoy, you awake? It's fine if you aren't. I just thought—it's early, and Ron and Hermione are asleep by now _ … _ " Potter trailed off awkwardly, the voice at odds with the stag currently staring at him head on. Draco muttered a low 'oh, sod it' and climbed fully out of bed, tucking his wand in his pyjama pocket for good measure and ignoring the stifled titters of the portraits that lined his room. _

_ Potter's Patronus led him to Potter's chambers and Draco was surprised to find the door unlocked and free of wards; unless the wards were specified to let him in, and that was something Draco did not want to dwell too long on. The stag gave him one last nudge before disappearing, gradually fading until nothing was left of it but wispy white trails not unlike smoke. The lights were on in Potter's bedroom and the Gryffindor was sat at the foot of his bed, clad in a white undershirt that forced Draco to acknowledge muscles that were the fruits of years of Quidditch-related labour. In an objective sense, he looked good. _

_ "Hey," Potter greeted him as Draco joined him, perching himself primly on the bed. Potter raked a hand through his perpetually mussed hair and glanced at Draco with a sheepish expression. "Did I wake you?" _

_ "Your Patronus would've woke me regardless, Potter," Draco quipped, wondering when he stopped spitting the surname with so much acidity, so much hatred, the way he used to. Potter had the grace to appear contrite. "Alas, the answer is no. I doubt any of us are sleeping through the night these days." _

_ Potter snorted, his head bobbing in agreement. "Right," he conceded, glancing once at Draco and then away. Draco felt something unpleasant lurch in his stomach at that—did Potter intend on a repeat of last time, whatever the fuck that was? That night was months ago and yet fresh in Draco's mind, the ghosting of Potter's lips eternally on his cheek like a bloody lovesick schoolgirl. Potter cleared his throat, picked at a tear in his shorts. "I needed to, erm, talk to you about something." _

_ Merlin above, here it was. "Oh joy," Draco drawled, schooling himself to comfortable blankness. "I do hope you didn't injure yourself thinking too hard." _

_ "Shove off," Potter retorted with a shove, laughing while doing so. His laugh wasn't bad, Draco thought to himself, not when it was in tandem with him. For so long he'd observe Potter laughing with Granger and the Weasel only to scowl when their eyes met. Potter sobered suddenly and the playful air dissipated along with his laughter. "No, it's—d'you know what a Horcrux is?" _

_ Draco's brow wrinkled as he tried and failed to recall any mention of one. "No." _

_ "Really?" Potter appeared surprised at that and Draco shot him an unimpressed glare. "Right, right. So Voldemort basically split his soul into various objects, and as long as those objects exist, he can't die. It's extremely dark magic." The explanation was no doubt memorised from Granger, Draco thought, thinking back to some of Potter's answers in class. This was news to him—news he doubted even Father knew, with his claims of their Lord's celebrated immortality. _ A Malfoy bows to no man, but He is beyond man, _ Father's voice echoed in his head, and Draco repressed the urge to shudder. _

_ Potter spoke up: "I'm setting out to find and destroy those objects. That's where this leaves you." Draco stared at him blankly, uncomprehending. Were they going to send him to another safehouse, or worse, back to his Father? "McGonagall informed us of an aunt you have, on your mum's side—" _

_ "I'm well aware of her, and no, Potter. I refuse." Draco cut him off snappily and Potter fluctuated between looking put out and amused before settling on amusement. _

_ "Right," Potter said slowly. "Well she did say you could go back to Hogwarts under her protection, but you would be expected to fight for, you know, the Order once the war comes to Hogwarts." _

_ It unnerved Draco, how Potter sounded so sure of the war reaching their school. He imagined Potter and McGonagall writing one another, exchanging secrets, and he wondered just how out of the loop he was. Draco held no love for Hogwarts, that much was certain, but the thought of not even being safe at an institution that had prided itself on being impenetrable was nothing short of terrifying. "Fine." The words left his mouth before his brain could think better of speaking them. "I'll do it if I must." _

_ Emerald eyes blinked at him before a blinding smile broke out on Potter's face. "Really?" His eyes shone with something akin to pride. Draco swallowed and glanced away, uncomfortable with the emotion. He was suddenly aware of the fact that at some point, Potter had shifted and was now imperceptibly closer. "You will?" _

_ "Don't make me say it again," he scowled, resisting the urge to move back as well as stare at Potter's biceps. _

_ Potter smiled and bumped shoulders with him. Draco didn't bump him back. Instead he cracked his wrists, trying to cease his fingers from their war-time acquired habit of nervous twitching. _

_ It was Potter who broke the silence. "You know how I told you about the Horcruxes?" At Draco's nod he sighed, his eyes focusing on something behind Draco as he appeared to consider his words carefully. "I'm actually one of them." _

_ "What?" Draco rounded on him, disbelief etched onto his face. The Dark Lord's soul in an annoyingly plucky Gryffindor's body was laughable. "You're either joking or wildly misinformed." _

_ A sardonic laugh rumbled from the other's chest. "I wish I was," Potter said with a rueful smile. "The night he killed my parents, he tried to kill me and it just _ … _ backfired. But it left me with—there's a part of him that's inside me, and that's how I can see those visions." His eyes closed and suddenly he looked exhausted, older than his years. When he spoke, it was quiet, almost a murmur. "I have to die in order for him to be defeated, I'm pretty sure. Hermione keeps insisting that isn't true but I can see it in her eyes, that she knows. There's no other way. This is just how it has to be." Potter opened his eyes, and Draco was stunned by the intense determination in them. "But if it has to be that way then I'll die taking him out with me." _

_ Draco swallowed, feeling like his mouth was made of cotton. Acceptance in dying—how the fuck did someone their age go about learning that? He hadn't even come to terms with the possibility, for Merlin's sake. A life without Potter would be strange; since childhood he'd heard tales of The Boy Who Lived, mythical in their nature. For nearly eight years Potter was his nemesis, a face he could find in any crowd imaginable, an antithesis to him whose presence was simply expected. Wherever Draco Malfoy went, Harry Potter would be there, and they would exchange barbed insults and sneers and snide remarks. Harry Potter was his intended friend, his almost decade old nemesis, and yet his equal, though he would never admit that out loud. Whatever Harry Potter could do, Draco had to best him, and Draco couldn't imagine hating and yet needing someone the way he did Potter with, say, Michael Corner. _

_ Everyone else simply dulled in comparison. _

_ "What are you going to do?" _

_ Potter stared him directly in the eyes, and Draco found that it was hard to think when faced with such brilliance. "Live without regret and enjoy the present in the meantime." _

_ And then Potter kissed him. _

_ It was not a beautiful kiss, full of romance like the novels his mother would read in secret. It was more of an assault of teeth at first before Draco hesitantly, cautiously relaxed into it, and even then there was nothing intimate about it, as far as kisses went. Like everything between them it was passionate and heated, the result of every insult and dirty look exchanged over the course of nearly a decade. Potter bit down on Draco's lip gently and when Draco gasped, took the opportunity to lick hotly into his mouth. Potter, it seemed, poured the same earnest intensity into everything he did; kissing included. Strong arms wrapped around his middle and Draco fell forward, nearly straddling the other. Potter broke the kiss, pulled away gasping, his lips deliciously swollen. _

_ Draco had always secretly loved those moments between him and Potter, when they would circle one another alone in the courtyard, a corridor. Draco would say something demeaning about some aspect of Potter's life—his friends, his girlfriend, his parents—and Potter would flush and splutter and move closer towards him. Each time felt like they were toeing an unspoken line, pushing the other to give in first. Draco knew why, now, and the realisation scared him as much as it excited him. _

_ "Draco," Potter said, like he was testing the syllables for the first time. This was the first time Potter said his name, and beneath the arousal, a thousand different feelings were beginning to stir. Draco decided to stick with the most familiar one. _

_ "Don't call me that," he hissed through clenched teeth. Potter spoke his name too reverently, and it was only the bloody first time he said it. At his questioning eyes, Draco shook his head. "It's always been Potter and Malfoy." _

_ Potter muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'it doesn't have to be' before Draco decided to take initiative and kissed him again, more aggressive this time, simply to shut up the sentimental Gryffindor before Draco was forced to say something he would regret. This was so much better than kissing Pansy, worlds beyond imagining Daphne Greengrass and trying to force his body to respond to the fantasies, though Draco would rather die than voice that aloud. Kissing Potter was unimaginable, and yet it felt like the natural conclusion to whatever it was they'd been dancing around since that night they fell asleep together. _

_ Beneath him Potter shifted, his hard cock rubbing against Draco, and Draco let out a breathy moan. His whole body was alight with electric pleasure and he wanted to chase this feeling, cherish it in the moment. He ground his own arousal against Potter's, delighting in the other's gasp, before burying his face against the sweaty, brown skin of Potter's neck. A knot in his chest loosened much like the way it did all that time ago, when Potter had kissed him goodnight. The mind was a strange tool; how long would Draco have convinced himself that it was anything but a kiss? How long had he convinced himself that he didn't want Potter? If not as a friend than an enemy, and if not an enemy then— _

_ "Dra—Malfoy," Potter breathed out, wrecked and beautiful, his voice hitching. His fingers were toying with the waistband of Draco's pyjama shorts, and he shivered. "Do you want this?" _

_ Draco nodded, and practically feeling the frown on Potter's face, sighed into his neck. "Yes, Potter," he sighed once again for good measure, just to demonstrate how ridiculous he found the concern. Nimble fingers slid down Draco's pyjamas and boxers, encircling his cock, and Draco bit his lip to refrain from crying out. With the hand that was not stroking his cock, Potter shimmied out of his own undergarments and guided Draco's hand, setting the pace to how he wanted. The chorus of both of their breathing filled the room. _

_ This was more intense than it ever had been when he was alone in the loo or his dormitory late at night. This was somehow shaping up to be more intense than anything in his life had been thus far. Father had never discussed sex with him, as the subject was a taboo, far too scandalous for unfiltered discussion. What he had told Draco was that it was his right, his duty, to marry a pureblood and produce an heir. If he so desired he could take a paramour so long as he was careful to not let her existence be known, whether through his own indiscretion or the birth of a bastard. At Hogwarts, Blaise would boisterously discuss his numerous conquests, talking animatedly of hands sliding up skirts in empty corridors and girls on their knees in abandoned classrooms. That's what sex was: an act of necessity, of lust, something to boast about among other men when in one's cups. Like any other activity, it was practiced to be perfected, and as Father and Blaise had taught him, any partners were to be kept at a distance. _

_ Sex was not supposed to be Potter staring at him, pupils blown, a look of wonder in those eyes as they stroked one another. Potter smiling softly at the involuntary cry Draco made as his hands slid away from his cock and down, further, circling his hole. "Alright there, Malfoy? We can stop—" _

_ "Fucking hell, Potter, keep going," Draco spat, closing his eyes in frustration. With a snort and roll of his eyes Potter obliged, carefully sliding a finger inside him. The pain was dull yet bearable, pleasurable as it were, and Potter shifted Draco gently — too gently for Draco's taste — onto the bed. Everything between them had always been a competition; that was always the unspoken rule. When Potter made the Quidditch team, Draco had to as well. That Potter was handling this with delicacy and emotion was almost too much to bear. Potter's cock was slick and heavy in his hand, and Draco sped up his movements as two, three fingers breached him. He keened into the darkness and then Potter's mouth was against his once again, sweet and pliant as he ground himself against those fingers. _

_ This was farther than Draco had ever gone with Pansy; theirs had been a union of awkward hand holding, fumbling kisses in the dark, and Pansy's long suffering sighs at the perpetual lack of any true attraction. Old habits died hard, however, and Draco would rather play into bravado than admit defeat, especially where Harry Potter was concerned. "Come on," he hissed, rocking his hips against Potter's fingers, trying to chase the fleeting sparks of pleasure that erupted whenever they brushed against a particular muscle. "I need—fuck, Potter." _

_ Potter pushed slowly into him, the pair of them face to face in the dark. One of his hands was rubbing soothing circles on Draco's hip, the other resting against the pillow below Draco's head. Draco felt his breath hitch before he was aware of it, and Potter's fingers squeezed his hip gently in reassurance, and it was all too much. _ If I look at him, I will break _ . Potter was invading each of his senses, the tangy smell of sex in the air, the sounds of his gasps punctuating the room each time he shifted, the musky taste of him against Draco's mouth. The feel of him when he pulled out only to thrust back in again, building up to a low, steady rhythm that saw a heat building from Draco's core. _

_ "Please," Draco begged, the word foreign to him, as he'd never begged for anything. But he never had this before either, and he found that _ this— _ in all of its oddity—was something worth begging for, something he desired. Potter obliged and he gripped those unruly curls and pulled, clawing at his neck to pull him down for a sloppy, passionate kiss. Potter's hips, trained from years of Quidditch, bucked in quick succession against him, trapping Draco's cock in the tight space between them. Sometimes between thrusts Potter would reach down and thumb the head, and in response Draco's legs and hole alike tightened around him. "Fuck!" Potter stared down at him with an expression equal parts reverent and lustful as he thrust into him, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut. _

_ Here was the truth of it: as long as they were in this room, nobody could know about this. Nobody knew what was going on between them at this very moment, and no one would ever know. The intimacy of this moment would be lost to everyone but Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, the very thought of it unbelievable to everyone they knew, and Draco was glad for that. He would remind himself of this numerous times in the days to come. _

_ Potter's breath hitched and Draco greedily rocked back against him, encouraging him to go deeper. His lips claimed the spot where Potter's neck met his shoulder and sucked, biting down on the soft, sweaty skin there. The muscles behind his thighs burned with exertion but Draco pushed through it, matching each of Potter's thrusts with one of his own, speeding up deliberately. A heady warmth filled him at once as Potter's body stilled before he collapsed with a groan, splaying himself across Draco's chest. Draco allowed that for several seconds before disentangling himself from Potter, ignoring the dull pain in his lower body as he did so. _

_ A serene smile bloomed across Potter's face, and this was perhaps the most relaxed Draco ever saw him. "There's a loo attached to the bedroom," he told Draco, pointing with his lips at an old, unused door. "If you need to wash up." _

_ "An ensuite," Draco corrected him absently, pulling his boxers and pyjama pants up. If he had less self-control he would have winced. If he had more self-control he wouldn't be in this situation. "It's fine. I was just on my way out, actually. It would be better if I go sleep in my own quarters for the remainder of the night." _

_ "Oh." Potter's face fell, only to be replaced by a strained smile. "I warded the bedroom, but yeah, I understand. Go on then." _

_ It's for the best, anyway, Draco told himself as he entered his own room, ignoring the knowing look Regulus shot him. There were certain things in life meant to be experienced once, like—like riding a dragon or meeting Viktor Krum. That unexplainable feeling, heavy like a knot, was slowly building up in his chest. He and Potter were careening toward a new place—uncharted territory for both of them, teetering the thin line between hate and _ … _ not love. Never, ever love. Empty attraction is all it would be; all it ever _ could _ be. _

_ Maybe it wasn't new, and they had been there all along. Maybe Draco never realised until now. He isn't sure what's worse. _

_*_

Months pass, the seasons change, and Potter's kept to his word about not meeting up. Life goes on. 

Draco isn't sure what Potter meant by 'doing something good with his freedom' but he has a feeling that 'drinking his sorrows away with Pansy in Greece' was not part of it. Mother's written him numerous times now asking whether or not he's thought about returning to England; each letter received the same reply of 'soon, Mother, once my affairs are taken care of', as he could not bear the thought of his mother knowing the full extent of his downfall. His 'affairs' were nought—he and Pansy rarely ventured outside unless it was to attend lavish restaurants or buy copious amounts of alcohol. One drunken night the pair of them stumbled out onto the beach which overlooked the Parkinson's estate. The night sky bathed formerly white sand in a blue haze, cool and powdery beneath their feet. Pansy collapsed into the dunes in a fit of giggles, Draco not far behind her, and he dropped an affectionate kiss to her head. He felt a twinge of pain in his foot and when he reached down to inspect the source he observed a piece of beach glass, emerald and smooth. He can remember the way his heart clenched as he pocketed it the stone, an act fueled by drunken sentimentality alone.

"So," Pansy spoke out into the darkness, her inky hair spilling over his pale shoulder. "Apparently they're rebuilding Hogwarts." 

"Hmm," was Draco's elegant response. 

She sighed against him then, quiet and resigned. "I'm going to go back, I think."

"I see," he replied, feeling increasingly sober and simultaneously too drunk for this conversation. "Will they even allow you? Is this what you want?"

"Mother will send a donation to aid in the rebuilding process," was Pansy's swift answer. "Besides, what else is there to do? I can't do…this, for the rest of my life." She paused for a moment, and then: "Do you ever miss England?" 

_ Mostly not, save for one incorrigible Gryffindor occasionally. _ "Sometimes, sometimes not." 

That was three days ago, and now, as the brisk British air laps at his face, Draco feels a rush of exhilaration and terror. Pansy was saddened but ultimately understanding of his decision to leave; the thought of spending another week or longer in their current routine was maddening, and he'd told her as much. The hedonistic lifestyle they favoured seemed to be nothing short of a coping mechanism and a toxic one at that, as those muddled emotions concerning everything war related are still eternally present, dregs that Draco can't even begin to think of how to work through. 

All he knows is that he wants things to change, and change starts with him. 

Draco doesn't even bother to try to convince himself that he's ended up on Potter's block coincidentally. It's an impulsive decision, one that he hasn't even thought through fully until 12 Grimmauld Place begins to slowly make itself known, filling out the liminal space between 11 and 13. He's positively _ buzzing _, his stomach giddy with emotion as though a fleet of pixies has taken root there. His belongings are shrunken down, packed inside a leather messenger bag Mother sent him at the beginning of his stay with Pansy; every so often he checks his robe pocket to make sure the beach glass is still there, warm and smooth inside the fabric of his pocket. As he takes a breath and knocks twice rhythmically on the door of his once-ancestral home, Draco can't help but ponder if this is the bravest he's ever been. 

The door opens a crack. "_ Malfoy_?" Potter's incredulous voice practically squawks, and then he's opening the door wider, revealing him in his true, ridiculous form. He's in his pyjamas, a bowl of cereal clutched in his left hand, and something in Draco's icy heart begins to thaw. 

"Hello," Draco greets him casually, as though the scenario unfolding is very normal and not at all comparable to the contents of a fever dream. He eyes the man with dry amusement, taking him in. "Merlin, Potter, is this how you answer the door? Is this what our Hero is up to these days?" 

Potter colours, a dark flush creeping its way up his chest to his neck. With a wave of his fingers he sends the bowl floating towards the direction of the kitchens before making a sweeping gesture with his hands that Draco could almost recognise as 'come in'. "There are Muggles on this street so you'd best come in, Malfoy, before you get accused of breaking Statute." 

Draco steps through the doorway, avoiding the umbrella stand that for some reason hasn't been disposed of yet. Memories flood his mind at once: a spoiled lordling reciting poetry and bowing upon the applause of his family; that same boy growing up imbued with a hatred he did not understand and yet did not question, being brought to the safety of an organisation he was taught to despise. His time with Potter and the looks shared between them, the awkwardness, the animosity, all that there was between them that the impending threat of war took from them. All that was there, and all that could have been. 

It isn't too late, now. There's still time. 

There's the sound of Potter's throat clearing, and Draco realises he's been staring. "Well?" Potter asks, his thick brows nearly disappearing into his hairline. "What brings you here?" 

"I…" Draco pauses, rolls the words around in his mouth. Swallows. "I want things to be different. _ I _ want to be—different." Potter is looking at him with an unreadable expression, his arms crossed over his chest. It suddenly occurs to Draco that perhaps Potter is dating someone—any one of his adoring fans or, Merlin forbid, that the female Weasley is back in the picture. Something about this moment is pivotal, though, and Draco knows it's now or never; knows that even if the Gryffindor _ is _ with someone, Draco still has to inform him of his desire to change. That'll make it real, and for once the reality of things doesn't seem so terrifying. 

He takes a deep breath. "I'm not saying that it will be seamless or even easy. I am still the same person I've always been, and you know my father. You're aware of the prejudices I was taught to uphold from an early age. But—" and damn it all if his voice cracks, Draco can't find it in him to care, "I don't want to be Lucius. I've seen what blind hatred does to people, Potter, I've witnessed it ruin my own family. I want that to stop with me. I need it to." 

Potter's chewing on the inside of his lip, appearing to deliberate everything Draco's just unloaded on him. Finally he nods, minutely at first and then once more, stronger, for good measure. "Alright," he says at last, still looking a little dazed about all of this. "Alright, Malfoy."

"Draco."

Potter blinks in bemusement. "Pardon?"

"You can call me Draco…Harry." The name feels foreign on Draco's tongue—he can't remember the last time he'd referred to him as 'Harry' and not an acerbic 'Potter'. One of the last walls remaining within him crumbles. 

Pott—_ Harry _ actually _ laughs _ then and cleans his glasses with the hem of his shirt in an act that Draco can't help but turn his nose at. "Are you sure this is actually you, Malfoy? Is this Ron taking the piss?" 

"Do you truly believe I would ever allow _ Weasley _ close enough to me to obtain a lock of my hair? You wound me, Potter." 

"Maybe we started off on the wrong foot all those years ago," Harry muses, a playful lilt in his tone that Draco's never had directed towards him before. This is different, and strange, but he's beginning to think maybe that's not so bad after all. 

He rolls his eyes and huffs. "Observant as ever I see." 

"Hey!" Harry protests. "_ I _ don't recall being the pointy git that insulted my new friend!" 

"Fine, fine," Draco concedes, his hands lifting in surrender. The beach glass is warm in his pocket, and in this light, Harry's eyes are reminiscent of the stone. "I was a spoiled, insufferable child. Point taken. But I'd like to be someone you'd want to know now."

"Do you, now?" A grin is beginning to twist Harry's lips, no matter how hard he's trying and failing to fight it. Harry isn't the type of person Draco would call _ endearing_, but it's a near thing.

"Don't make me say it again," Draco drawls with his best sneer, but it's half-hearted compared to what he's used to. 

Harry extends his hand. Sunlight pours in through ratty curtains, bathing brown flesh in gold. Draco accepts it, his hand sliding easily into Harry's, his long fingers giving Harry's warm hand a squeeze. 

Nothing in the history of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy has ever been beautiful; every word between them was harsh with hatred, every look a hardened glare. Animosity was at the very heart of each interaction between the boys, the result of a prejudice Draco had been too scared, too subservient to question. Their first night spent together had been no different; the kiss, in its intensity, mirrored every punch thrown between them, and the physicality expressed between the pair was tinged with grief. Grief over the realisation that death spares no one, in spite of their foolish belief in youthful immortality, and the burden of knowing that war makes monsters out of even the best kinds of men. Bodies moved together to express the emotions that they didn't have the words to express, if there were any in the English language that could even capture the depths of what war had taught them—lessons that most individuals went about their whole lives without learning. 

Nothing in the history of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy has ever been beautiful, but maybe this could be. 

Maybe Draco would even give him that beach glass one day. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [H/D Tropes Exchange Fest 2019,](http://www.hdtropes.tumblr.com) posting August & September 2019! Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it!


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